


Hell Is When I Can't See You

by detective_in_training



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional, Hurt, M/M, Major Character Injury, Moriarty is an asshole, Physical Disability, Realization of love, Recovery, Suicide Attempt, and John needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detective_in_training/pseuds/detective_in_training
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After walking right into Moriarty's trap Sherlock ends up hurt badly, and in a way he never considered possible. The once proud and strong Sherlock is now helpless and broken. With his mind proving to be a worse enemy than Moriarty, he has to struggle with his disability and with the anguish he's unleashed on those who care about him... and those he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> This particular plot has been on my mind forever. The idea of a hurt and helpless Sherlock is a wonderful writing challenge - to try and understand how an emotionally impenetrable person like Sherlock would deal with the betrayal of his body, and with the pain he's unwillingly inflicting on others.  
> It is a work in progress, even though I have three fourths of it ready. Due to time constraints, I can't promise a deadline, but even for the sake of the poor characters, I'd like to finish it soon.  
> I really, really hope you like it, and any feedback would be more than welcome!

The last thing Sherlock knows is that he is flung high up into the air, dust and rocks battering him from every direction, and then slams into the ground with bone cracking force. What he remembers right before that is the blinding light, the roar and flames of the explosion. Then Sherlock does not know or feel anything else, because the world around him spins wildly, shudders and goes black. 

***

Sherlock gasps and painfully drags in a mouthful of air. His fingers have difficulty unclenching from the bed sheets. Each one of his limbs feels crushed and heavy like lead. He tries to swallow but his tongue seems stuck to the roof of his mouth. There is no moisture - his mouth is arid as sand. Sherlock’s mind refuses to cooperate; it is sluggish and slow. He can’t figure out where he is, or why. Torturously slowly he forces his mind to recall any event that would allow him to comprehend. His forehead crumples in concentration but that hurts, so he compels his facial muscles to loosen. He draws a sharp breath as a memory slashes through his mind.

Dust. Billowing blankets of dust. Rocks spiral and soar through the air. The air roars. The heat scorches and burns. Sherlock’s body crumples in a pile of limbs and pain. Pain, unendurable pain, and sheer terror.

With this revelation comes a damnable sense of failure and guilt. Now he remembers. Now he knows. He should have guessed - it had been all in front of him, but for the sake of the game and the chase he had refused to see. He had been so close to capturing Moriarty that nothing else mattered. And that’s how he’d paid for his carelessness. He’d walked headfirst into Moriarty’s sophisticated and elaborate trap putting himself and John in grave danger. Oh God… _John_!

“John.” The word is barely more than a hoarse moan, but suddenly there is someone striding across the room and he feels a calloused, warm hand gently slide around his.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?" John's familiar and frantic voice is next to his ear and he groans in reply. "God, Sherlock, you’re awake. You’re finally awake. Sherlock, I really thought you’d…” He's repeating Sherlock's name like a mantra or a safety line, when John’s voice breaks off and Sherlock flinches as he feels a drop of moisture land on his hand. He tries to utter a sorry, to apologise for his idiocy, for having caused such havoc, for almost having died and let John suffer…for having made John think Sherlock would leave him. Instead his throat rasps and gurgles, his tongue too stiff to curl around the letters. Instantly John comprehends and places cold, cool glass against his lips. “Drink Sherlock. It’s water – you must be parched.” Sherlock parts his lips and feels the precious substance trickle inside his mouth, cooling and reviving. It takes him a few attempts to force his throat to swallow, and most of the water spills back out pooling across his chin and chest, but it’s water – actual water, and he thinks he hasn’t felt anything more lovely in his life.

Now Sherlock wants to talk, explain, and ask for forgiveness, but he’s too drowsy, and so, so tired; and he doesn't know how to explain what has happened or where to begin from because he only knows how he feels. His body, his ally, is already sealing his eyelids shut and leadening his arms. And somewhat against his own wishes he is pulled back into the protecting downy quilt of sleep with John’s hand clasping his.

He feels himself drifting in and out of consciousness in a continuous loop, barely being able to move because his body is trapped in a web of tubes and drips and lines. So whenever his mind attempts to gain control over his body he stills them both and forces himself to return to the dark silence of unconsciousness.

Minutes, hours, or possibly days later Sherlock awakens from hushed whispers around him. His head pounds in a nauseating rhythm together with the mechanical whirring and beeping and the human voices. He grunts in annoyance wishing for everyone to be quiet, but in response receives a high-pitched squeal as someone, doubtlessly Molly, realizes he’s conscious. He snarls and recoils from the sound as the noise vibrates painfully throughout his head. However, his thirst is more powerful than the pain, so with his fingers he gestures the common sign for drinking, which is gently handed to him, and soon Molly shoos the other voices out of the room. The bed creaks as she perches by his side and launches into a somewhat hysterical monologue. “Goodness, Sherlock, you had us all so worried! You were in a coma for an entire week, and the doctors couldn’t say whether you’d ever wake up from it, or if you would, whether you’d have any permanent injury. And John, poor, dear John…he didn’t leave this room for a minute while you were unconscious – he dozed on the chair in the corner. I had to send him home yesterday after you first woke up, because he could hardly stand from not eating. He was so scared. We all were! But now you’re fine, aren’t you? You’ll be back on your feet soon, you’ll see!” Sherlock lets the air in his lungs flow out in a long sigh, even though his ribs scream in protest. They had been worried about him. Why people would have felt worry towards Sherlock was beyond his comprehension - it had been his fault after all. He lets the thought spiral away for now because he does not know how to deal with it in the present situation, and instead focuses on Molly.

“Yes, Molly,” he croaks, his voice still rusty. A cough to clear his throat, and then his voice becomes stronger and more familiar to his ears. “I feel better. And…I’m sorry.” Only a few words uttered, and he feels exhausted as though he’d climbed a mountain.

Giddily Molly shushes him, “Rubbish, Sherlock! You have nothing to be sorry for! It’s just a mistake you made. Everyone makes mistakes, because we're all human!”

Somehow Sherlock gathers the strength to shout, fuelled by the rage he feels towards himself. “No, Molly! I do NOT make mistakes! I put you all in danger! John could have died, I probably _would_ have died, and there would have been nothing and nobody to stop Moriarty from avenging Moran’s death on everyone I know – you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…” He breaks off to cough savagely, his entire body heaving and shuddering but he goes on as soon as his voice returns. “Bah, even Anderson wouldn’t have been spared. Do you have any idea what repercussions my human mistake would have caused? It’s my entire fault.” Here his voice shudders to a halt, his anger and energy spent. Sherlock’s breath jars in his throat and he feels the pressure of unwelcome, hot and heavy tears welling up behind his tightly shut eyelids. He knows he must regain composure, but once his carefully built and exceedingly well protected shell has cracked, the human emotions slithering underneath keep threatening to break free and unleash havoc upon him. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. See where it’s gotten you now, you fool. He can almost hear Mycroft in his ear, and knows that he’d have been faultlessly correct. Human emotions are the downfall of people like he. Yet… No. He feels too tired for mental imaginary battles against Mycroft, or himself for that matter.

There is silence from Molly’s side on the bed, and Sherlock knows that if John was here he’d scold Sherlock for having shouted at her. Bit not good, and all that. “I’m… sorry, Molly. I…just need…time to come to grips about what happened. I certainly didn’t intend for anyone to be worried about me, when you should all have been blaming me instead.”

“Oh, but Sherlock, nobody blames you. Quite the opposite – I think that what you did was incredibly brave and self-sacrificing. Now you must stop these self-blaming thoughts, and rest and regain your strength. Here, I’ll open the curtains and let in some light so you can see what lovely weather you’re missing. It’s pitch black and stuffy in here.” Her voice wavers with emotion and she’s talking far too quickly, but Sherlock senses that she’s trying to hold herself strong.

The bed groans as she gets up and Sherlock hears her heels click across a tiled floor. He hears curtains whoosh open and waits to feel sunlight hit him across the face. He even winces automatically to protect his eyes from the assault. He slowly opens one eye, then the other and begins asking Molly why didn’t she open the curtains properly when he registers warmth on his face. His eyes strain wildly, blinking rapidly, his forehead creasing and furrowing uncomprehendingly. His breathing becomes ragged and hurried as his hands rub frantically across his eyes trying to clear the inky blackness shutting out every last glimpse of light.

The next thing he hears is Molly running out of the room screaming for a doctor because Sherlock cannot see anymore.


	2. Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock refuses to acknowledge that he has suddenly become human, in an effort to assuage John and his own fears.

Sherlock bears it somehow. He supports the endless tests; being prodded and poked like a prized show animal, told to open and close his eyes and having his head placed in countless machines. He endures the barrage of visitors, well-wishers and even a couple of journalists in what he deems ‘good grace’, but in reality borders on obscenely rude. What he has a harder time bearing is John. Because John is unpredictable. One minute he’s cradling Sherlock’s head telling him to be strong and that the doctors will soon find a way to heal him, the next he’s screaming about the ineffectuality of medicine and throwing things across the room. It’s taken him a while, but now Sherlock understands that John feels an indescribable volume of emotions – being a helpless doctor and being a hopeless friend. Not that John ever mentions anything, but Sherlock can’t help but hear the strained note of desperation and fear in John’s voice when he repeatedly asks every doctor again and again for news, for new results.

Sherlock knows that the only way he can help John deal with it is by staying calm. He refuses to consider that it’s also the only way how he himself can cope without crumbling. So Sherlock pretends to be calm. He makes conversation, eats, and obeys the doctors’ orders. It takes him all he can not to fall apart at the seams, so he imagines that’s he’s fine. John is fine. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine. He’s only made one request since he’s woken – he’d asked for the curtains to be kept permanently closed, so that everyone would share his darkness. Shameful pride and despicable ego, he knows. But it’s the patient’s last wish, so nobody dares defy him.

Finally Sherlock’s physical wounds have healed well enough for him to be released, and one of the doctors wants to go over the final test results with him. John asks a nurse to call the doctor to Sherlock’s room, but instead Sherlock requests John to help him walk to the office to which he unwillingly agrees. He hears people hush and cease their conversations as they make their way along the medicine-pungent corridors – the tall, weak, blind figure being supported by the short, strong and seeing one. It’s a long, painstaking journey – Sherlock is uncoordinated and confused without his sight, stumbling over his own feet, bumping into wheelchairs, banging his hands into walls and people. They walk in silence, heads held high. It is a walk of shame, but also a walk of pride, because Sherlock needs everyone, and himself, to understand that he will not be defeated this easily.

John guides Sherlock to a chair opposite the doctor’s desk. He fumbles with his fingers – trying to shake the doctor’s hand but missing it a number of times. The doctor clears his throat and launches into a meandering description of performed tests and their results, treatment, medication, surgeries and fatality rates. Sherlock is only half listening – partly because he knows that John is clinging on to every word, and also because he already knows he’s lost the battle, if not the war. His mind fades out most of the sound after he registers the diagnosis – retinal detachment caused by a traumatic head injury. Briefly he hears “ _…serious complications…progressive or sudden loss of all vision…peripheral opthalmoscopy eye examination…cryosurgery, sclera buckling, pneumatic retinopexy...with little or no success..._ ” but he focuses his attention completely when he hears the doctor explain that “...most people cope relatively well with blindness. Certainly circumstances are much more favourable for those with no sight nowadays. We can easily offer you round the clock supervision, a guide dog, and other services for the visually impaired, such as Braille lessons.”

Sherlock does not even realize how or that he’s gotten to his feet and hears himself yell, arms flailing wildly, “I am Sherlock Holmes, for heaven’s sake! Never have I been guided by anyone, even less a dog. I do not need your visually impaired services – if you cannot give me back my sight then I have no need for any of your substitute rubbish! Come now, John – let’s go home.”

With that final word ringing in his ears he attempts to step out of the chair and walk across the room, but his leg catches on something, and he tumbles clumsily to the ground, hitting his shin and elbow in the process. In a split second John is by his side, holding him, helping him up, checking for broken bones, and Sherlock feels a gigantic ball rise and block his throat and pressure welling up behind his eyes and he feels weak, crippled, desperate, hateful, miserable, pitiful, and so, so helpless. He’s never been helpless in his life. And right now he hates himself more than ever.


	3. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It always takes the most painful of truths to drive a point home.

Somebody, probably Mycroft, has rearranged the flat so that it’s easily accessible for a blind person. No sharp edges, clear pathways, telephones installed in every room, alarm systems, anything Sherlock may need is within an arm’s reach. At least it smells the same as always. Even if everything else has changed, it’s still home.

Sherlock lies on the bed in his room about a week later, learning to control his mind and forcing it to stay clear, keeping the turmoil as distant as possible, when he hears mumbling in the living room. John. On the telephone. Talking to somebody. And by the stifled angry note in his voice – not receiving good news. As quietly as he can, he blindly fumbles and pats the bedside table for the extension telephone. Ah... Sherlock lifts it gently to his ear in time to catch Lestrade speaking as clearly as though he was in the room next to him.

“John, goodness, do you know what you’re asking? He’s _blind_. How on earth could he possibly help? We’re detectives – we rely on sight in our field. Sherlock has a brilliant mind, and is capable of incredible things, but without his sight he is nothing. I’m sorry for what happened to him – believe me, I really am. And I’d help if I could. But I cannot, regrettable as that is. What you’re asking of me is impossible. I’m so sorry, John, but we really have no need for a blind detective.” And with a frightfully loud snap the phone connection clicks off, replaced by annoyed beeps. Sherlock remains rooted to the spot, paralyzed with the telephone pressed to his ear as reality finally kicks in.

Every word Lestrade had said rang true. He’d spoken the very truth that Sherlock was deceiving himself against to protect the wounded shell that he was. Sherlock has been reduced to a nothing. All his life he’d relied on his mind to make sense of what he saw. And without his sight, his mind could not make sense of anything. He could no longer read people from their clothes, interpret their gestures or study their facial expressions. Without his eyes, he was no longer a detective. Hell, he was no longer anything. Lestrade was right, he wasn’t of help to anyone anymore. Who needed a blind detective? It would be like having a mute singer, and what use what that? Whatever he'd amounted to in the past was lost now, and he was going to endure a lifetime of resignation and being tied to a bed, instead of chasing criminals across London or deciphering clues. The truth jarred his bones, and hurt in every bit of his body. Hurt more than the moment he was flung to the ground during the explosion. Hurt more than the moment he realized he was blind.

John taps on the door and opens it slightly. “Cup of tea, Sherlock?” But Sherlock simply turns his back to the door and bites hard on his pillow to prevent any sound escaping, because it would have sounded inhuman even to his own ears.


End file.
